


A Song of Faith and Flame

by CaekDaemon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Crusades, Gen, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Pre-Canon, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 04:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8953981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaekDaemon/pseuds/CaekDaemon
Summary: For years that border on the eternal, the sons and daughters of Andalos have kept the Faith of the Seven, first taught to them by Hugor of the Hill, the first ever King of the Andals, the very one to whom the Seven had first revealed themselves and placed a crown upon his brow, promising that his descendents would reside in great kingdoms in a foreign land. Five thousand years since that day of faith, the Seven Kingdoms still heal from the great wounds of the last war, the Dance of the Dragons, and the Targaryens yet mourn the loss of their great dragon mounts, the last a mere shadow of the greatness that had come before. In this time, King Daeron plans and plots the final completion of Aegon's Conquest - the invasion of Dorne. It is an act that he hopes and dreams will be a legacy worth leaving, but it seems that fate has a different plan in store for him, for rather than heading south, news of the sacking of the sacred Seven Hills of Andalos reaches King's Landing, and King Daeron has no choice but to lead the defense of his Faith...and so, he leads his armies eastwards, back to Andalos.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you've been wondering why so many of my stories have been appearing on here lately, well, I've been forgetting to post them :p

****  
**A Song of Faith and Flame  
King's Landing, 157 AC...**  


Daeron sighed wearily as he looked down at the parchment map, a carefully drawn depiction of the southern half of Westeros, his new kingdom, picking up his glass of Arbor gold and taking a long swig. the conquests of Aegon the Conqueror, his great-great-great-great grandfather and the greatest of the Targaryen line, how he had forged one realm where there had once been many, and that interest hadn't died as he grew and swapped wooden blades for steel ones, no, it had only grown stronger and filled him with a desire to finish what Aegon had started all those years ago, for despite the Conqueror's skills and the skills of his brother and all their vassal lords and even the Balerion the Black Dread, the conquest was incomplete, as one realm stood defiant, unbent and unbowed before the Iron Throne.  
  
Dorne.  
  
They had been a perennial thorn in the side of the Targaryen kings, raiding the lands of the Reach and the Stormlands for millenia before the Conquest, leaving plundered and burning villages, butchered men and raped women in their wake, only to disappear back into the sands of their homeland when the marcher lords rode to bring them to justice...and of course, the Princes of Dorne _never_ helped with the problem, nor even allowed the crown to send men into their lands to hunt them down, either...but they had only been allowed to get away with such a situation because the kings on the Iron Throne had _allowed_ them to do so, occupied with more important matters. Aegon the Conqueror had needed to consolidate his control over the realm and had been forced out of Dorne by the simple fact they had captured his beloved Rhaenys, and probably butchered her, too, as the Dornish were want to do. Then Maegor the Cruel, who had been interested in finishing his father's campaigns, had to deal with the Faith Militant and a number of uprisings, and after them most of the kings hadn't the interest in doing so.  
  
But not now. Not Daeron. He had succeeded to the throne barely three months before, and he had none of the patience for Dorne that his predecessor had, nor any problems to distract him from crushing the desert dogs under his heel and claiming vengeance for all those they had butchered over the years. _The maesters say they live in the sands. They will bend the knee, else I shall have them buried in them._ He had spent almost every waking moment since his father's death and since his own coronation working on his invasion plans, learning where all those who had tried before had gone wrong and correcting their mistakes through long hours of study and meticulous planning. Though it would eventually guarantee him a swift and decisive victory, it was a long and tiresome task, and even he had only so much energy and focus to spend throughout the day.  
  
He sighed softly, setting his goblet back down as he reached over for another dusty old tome sent from Oldtown, this one about how the Ironborn had raided the Dornish coastal towns and villages in the days of the Hoares and before the Conquest. _Perhaps a coastal attack would work...? It would give me a chance to take Sunspear and decapitate the Dornish defense long before they had a chance to organize, leaving only butcher's work for the rest, but that means I would need a large flee-_  
  
In stormed the High Septon in all his vestments, an old man whose cheeks were red with wroth and anger, the crystal crown covering what little grey hair he had left. He had once been a knight, a veteran of the Dance of the Dragons who had found his faith during the bloody war and took up the vows as a means to atone for his sins of war...or, at least, that is what the rumors said.  
  
"Your grace! You **cannot** allow this...this provocation to stand!" the High Septon sputtered furiously. "It is a grave insult to all the sons of the Seven! A crime without equal!"  
  
"Your holiness, I must ask you to leave and await his permission," said a frustrated Aemon the Dragonknight. "You cannot simply storm into his solar whenever you -"  
  
"What provocation do you speak of, High Septon?" Daeron asked quickly, cutting off his Kingsguard cousin with a silent flick of his wrist. "Have the Dornish burnt another sept? Raped their way through a motherhouse? Both?"  
  
"It is not the Dornish, your majesty, as even they would not stoop so low," the High Septon spoke quickly, his fury simmering beneath the surface. "But the R'hllorists! They have taken the seven holy hills of Andalos, the very place where Hugor of the Hill was given his crown by the Father! It is the _birthplace_ of knighthood and the Faith itself! The homeland of _all_ Andals! Our **homeland!** "  
  
"They..." Daeron stammered with a stunned stare. "They did **what?** "  
  
"They overwhelmed the temple's few defenders in a surprise assault and put the Sept of the Seven Hills, our holiest and most ancient of places, the very site of Hugor's Tomb, to the torch!" the High Septon sobbed. "They **burnt** it as an offering to their forsaken god and now they would go so far as to deny Andal pilgrims their right to visit the holy places! Worse! They profane the land itself with their own construction!"  
  
_It was always the duty of the Faith Militant to protect those lands from whoever would march on them, but when King Maegor destroyed the order it left the holy places without **any** protection!_  
  
Daeron glanced towards his cousin and saw that the ever stalwart and true Aemon, a knight famed across the land as the Dragonknight, was taken aback and angered by the news, his cheeks red with anger, as any true knight would be.  
  
In that moment, Daeron knew. He rose to his feet, and met the High Septon with his eyes and a open palm.  
  
"I swear it now, by all the gods, I will not let this stand," Daeron said, his voice iron. "I will reclaim the Seven Hills and all the other holy lands for the Faith. More, I will make sure that the sons of Andalos and Hugor of the Hill reclaim their ancestral homeland."  
  
"Oh! Thank you!" smiled the delighted High Septon, leaning down and kissing Daeron's signet ring as he clutched the king's hands in gratitude. "They will sing songs of your nobility, your grace! I shall inform the Most Devout post-haste, they will see to it that the word is spread across the entire realm."  
  
Daeron nodded, letting the High Septon leave with nothing more said as he sat back down in his seat, taking the map of Dorne and tossing it aside.  
  
"Aemon," he said as he reached into a drawer and took out some blank parchment, putting ink to paper as he began to write the words of his call to arms. "Find me a map of Andalos. It seems Dorne will have to wait."  
  


****  
**A few months later...**  


Aemon looked around with a growing pride as he and his king strode through the great field of tents that surrounded the capital, a massive encampment of red and green and gold and black tents where the dragon banners flew proudly, soaring in the warm summer winds with the rose, the lion and the stag alongside them, with only the brilliant white cloth of the Faith flying higher beneath the golden sunlight of the gentle day. _If there was ever a perfect day for an army to start crossing the Narrow Sea, today is that day._  
  
He smiled to himself, shifting his weight as he held his helmet under his arm and looked around with keen eyes. Everywhere there were pious men praying, for gentle winds on the journey to come, for the Smith's care for their arms and armor, for the Warrior's guidance in battle. Almost half of all the knights he saw were not young men who had never tasted battle nor squires who had only recently won their spurs, but hard and grizzled veterans, battle hardened knights in their thirties and forties who had marched for the first time twenty years before, a time when dragons still danced amongst the clouds. _But there are some younger men here, too. Knights who want a chance to prove themselves on a real battlefield...they'll get their chance._  
  
Approving and respectful nods came his way from the ranks, for King Daeron, he knew, and from the septons who walked in groups of seven giving blessings to the men, praying alongside them for gentle winds on the journey to come, for the Smith to keep their arms and armor strong and for the Warrior to guide them in battle and make their strikes hard and true. The soft smell of incense followed them through the camp, masking the scent of horses and men and dirt, along with low, almost whispered chanting of prayer, a soothing sound that stilled his nerves and made him feel calm and steady, rather than anxious about cross the ever-temperamental waters of the Narrow Sea. _I never did like sailing...but the Septons say that a man armored in his faith never needs to know fear...all the more reason to pray to the Smith that our ships were built well..._  
  
"Is there something on your mind, cousin?" Daeron asked with a curious look, turning his attentions towards Aemon and away from the rallying army. "You haven't said so much as a word today."  
  
"The Kingsguard is meant to be seen and not heard, your grace," he replied stoically.  
  
"That did not stop you yesterday or the day before," Daeron teased with a laughing voice. "And isn't it against those vows to evade your king's questions?"  
  
"If you must know, your grace..." Aemon sighed under his breath. "I get...seasick."  
  
"Seasick? You?" Daeron asked with surprise. "Really?"  
  
Aemon nodded silently.  
  
"But you're half Lysene!" Daeron laughed with amusement. "How could you possibly suffer from seasickness?"  
  
"I wish I knew," Aemon sighed again  
  
"Ginger and apples works well enough," said the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Alyn Connington, called the Pale Griffin for being the first Connington to have ever joined the ranks of the Kingsguard. "Stay on deck, too, and watch the horizon. It makes things better."  
  
"You have seasickness too, Ser Alyn?" Daeron asked with interest. "Should I be concerned for my protection during the crossing?"  
  
"Not at all, your grace," came the griffin's answer. "But my sworn brother Ser Marston Waters did...oddly enough, seeing as he was a bastard from Dragonstone of all places..."  
  
"Well, it is a good thing the crossing won't take too long, then," Daeron said with a barely contained enthusiasm. "Ah, fighting to protect the Faith and to free the holylands from the R'hllorists, marching towards the Seven Hills...could there ever be a more noble cause?"  
  
"Knights from across the entire kingdom have flocked to your banners because of it, your grace," the Lord Commander answered. "I have not seen such a massive gathering of men since the final days of the Dance when I was still but a squire."  
  
The massive pavilion that was to be the heart of their war for the holy places came into view, a huge seven sided star sewn from great sheets of blood red, fiery orange, sunrise yellow, grass green, sky and ocean blue and lastly a bright, lavender purple. The tent was as big as that of any king, bigger even, rising tall and proud off of the ground so that its shape could be seen at even a great distance away, and all around it were septons and septas of all kinds, even begging brothers who planned to planned to take the chance to go on the once of a lifetime pilgrimage to the birthplace of the Faith and of knighthood.  
  
But before it stood a sight far more eye catching than even the greatest of buildings - a simple, wooden star of seven sides, as large across as a man with his arms outstretched.  
  
It was plain and undecorated, carved from aging timbers and held together with old, red nails...but if what the brothers of the Faith said was true, it was the first ever symbol of the Faith in Westeros, carved from timbers of the first seven warships to come have come ashore at the very start of the Andal Invasion eons ago, kept safe in the great vaults underneath the Starry Sept of Oldtown ever since. It was affixed to a cart handbuilt by the sworn brothers of the Faith and anointed seven times in the seven oils, with three wheels on the left and another three on the right and a seventh, guiding wheel at the very forefront so that it could be more easily steered by the holy men who would be pushing it along on its journey.  
__  
Seven, what a sight...  
  
"Your grace!" came a shout from near the tent...and over came Lord Torrhen Manderly, a weakening and old man who had been one of King Aegon III's regents and the Lord of White Harbor during the war. "I come with a letter from Lord Cregan Stark!"  
  
The Lord of White Harbor passed the king a sealed letter, and Daeron mused quietly as he broke the seal with the tip of his finger. "This explains that he won't be coming along on our campaign to the hills because he doesn't keep the Faith, no doubt. Mayhaps something about wildlings, too."  
  
The king looked at the writing, amethyst eyes glancing over the text before he smiled and folded the letter closed again, passing it over to the Lord Commander for safekeeping. "I thought as much. It seems the Warden of the North will not be accompanying us on our journey."  
  
"Because of wildlings, your grace?" Aemon asked with amusement.  
  
"Wildlings and the Ironborn, actually," Daeron said quickly, turning his attentions back to the Lord of White Harbor. "Don't worry, I shall not hold his absence against him. If the Lord Stark is content to sit on the beaches watching for longships whilst the men of the South win true glory on the fields, I won't be the one to stop him."  
  
There were laughs from all around, and even Lord Manderly smiled before falling to his knee before his king. "Indeed! But the knights of White Harbor are at the ready, your grace, and I too. I might be old and withering, but I will be damned if I sheath my blade when the Warrior has need of it most. And if I should finally die in the fields, then I die doing the Seven's work."  
  
"It will be good to have a man with your experience with us," Daeron said warmly as he offered his hand, pulling Lord Manderly back onto his feet. "My father always spoke highly of you as an advisor and as a friend. Mayhaps I will one day say the same."  
  
Lord Manderly beamed with pride at the king's words, and turned to leave with a smile and a look as though he had become a dozen years younger. _I don't remember my uncle ever saying such a thing, but even if he didn't, it deserves to be said all the same. Lord Manderly could have stayed behind with the rest of the Northmen and the Ironborn if he so pleased...but he didn't. He rides with us even though he is six and two years of age, and has brought all the strength of White Harbor with him._  
  
The three men continued on towards the tent where the commanders of the massive warhost were gathering to make the final preparations for the voyage. He followed, never once taking his hand off of the pommel of his sword, even though he felt calm and at ease amongst the great army, and the knights guarding the tent knelt before the king as he passed through into the cool shade within, where two of the Lords Paramount were already gathered, setting aside their differences and arguments with one another. In the midst of the space was a wooden table with a large map of Andalos and the western shore of Essos, illuminated by sunlight shining through a large open flap in the cloth above, and around it were gathered the commanders of the highest birth in the army - Lord Orbert Baratheon, the nephew of Lord Boros Baratheon who had fought for the blacks during the war, and the eldest of all the Lords Paramount present. Then there was Lord Lyonel Tyrell on his left and Ser Damon Lannister on his right, both young men who had been still been babes when the Dance of the Dragons was ending and were now the heads of their houses...or in Damon's case, the eldest man still of able body, his father being crippled and unable to ride thanks to the Dance. Elsewhere there were other veteran lords and battle hardened knights ready to add their voice and their opinions if need be.  
  
"Your grace," said Lord Orbert Baratheon, the nephew of Lord Boros Baratheon, who had fought for the blacks during the war and the eldest of all the Lords Paramount present. "The army shall soon be ready to sail, and a raven came from Gulltown - the Arryns and the Tullys have amassed at the city and will sail as soon as is possible."  
  
"Then if the winds are good, we will meet them at sea," King Daeron said with a smile. "A pity there wasn't enough harbor space here for them to be able to gather here with us, however."  
  
"Indeed so, but I am concerned about sustaining such a large invasion force in Essos," Lord Orbert said as he walked over to the map, placing his fingers above Pentos and drawing an imaginary circle. "Most of this land is almost empty. The Dothraki have a peace with the Pentoshi, who pay them tribute, that is so, but the Braavosi have been at war with Pentos for years now, and I cannot tell you whether the villages and farms that this map says exist are still there."  
  
"Even if that is so," Lord Lyonel Tyrell countered. "The Redwynes have guaranteed us the use of their fleet. I could easily have the bounty of the Reach shipped across the sea, to keep bread on the tables of our armies. And ale and wine, too."  
  
"And anything else we need can be bought from the Braavosi," Ser Damon Lannister agreed. "They would be more than willing to trade with us as we cross the Andalosi plains on our way to the hills...and if you command it, I am sure they will be even more eager to trade with us should we win their war for them by smashing in the gates of Pentos."  
  
"I command it," the king said with a small smile. "The Pentoshi are better merchantmen than warriors, and they have been bled white by all their years of losing battle after battle. They will be an easy enough foe to crush."  
  
"And one we must deal with if we are to ever retake the old kingdom and keep it safe from the damned fire worshippers again," the Lord Commander agreed. "Once the city is fallen, it will be much easier to protect the holy places from the reds."  
  
"And of course, the Pentoshi are slavers," said Aemon in agreement with his king and his Lord Commander. "There is nothing the Seven despise more than slavery."  
  
"Now, the embarkation," the king started. "How is it? Are the horses being good?"  
  
"It goes as well as you might expect," Lord Orbert answered honestly. "Our steeds are descended from the ones that the Andals brought over from Essos, and the songs never mention them being too much trouble during the voyage...but Seven have mercy, you would think they would have written down some warning. Horses do not like it when the ground beneath them is unsteady, like mud or sand, but even when calm the sea is unsteady by nature."  
  
"Then that is someone else who will be grateful when we reach the shore," the king said to the amusement of many, glancing towards Aemon with a smile before returning his attentions to the map. "Now, ferrying the -"  
  
There was a commotion outside, the shouting of an argument...and the hairs of Aemon's neck stood on end as he heard the rasp of a sword leaving its sheath. He spun round on his heels, ripping Dark Sister from its scabbard and rushing out the tent to confront whatever it was that could threaten his king...but King Daeron followed with his own weapon drawn, and the Lord Commander came with him.  
  
"I swear it, ser!" said a voice with an accent Aemon could not place, Aemon emerging from the tent to see a knight in white and purple, a falling star crossing paths with a sword on his breastplate and a greatsword across his back, standing besides another man in tan plate with a portcullis etched into its surface. "We mean none of you any harm!"  
  
"As if I will ever believe you," snapped an Oakheart knight with his sword drawn and shield raised, ready for battle and with a dozen men-at-arms formed up behind him with crossbows and maces. "Dornishmen are all liars."  
  
"What is the meaning of this?" King Daeron demanded. "Who are you? Why have you come here?"  
  
"I am Lord Uther of Starfall," the Dayne said, careful to avoid making any hostile movements as he turned towards his companion. "And this is Lord Yohn Yronwood, Lord of Yronwood. We have brought our hosts with us - Lord Beric Fowler also - and have come to join our forces with yours."  
  
"Really?" Daeron's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "And where are these men of yours?"  
  
"We have ordered them to stay near the Kingswood," Lord Yohn said carefully. "We did not wish for our unexpected arrival to cause an issue, so Lord Uther and I rode here alone and without escorts," then he slowly reached for his sword, drawing it...and passing it over to the Lord Commander, without hesitation. "See? We mean you no harm. I swear of it."  
  
Daeron's gaze softened, however so slightly.  
  
"Our gods are the same as yours," Lord Uther said quickly. "When we found news of what had happened to the sacred hills, that the red devils had destroyed Hugor's Tomb...we could not sit idly by, not whilst you gathered an army to take back the holylands."  
  
"And do the Martells know that you are here?"  
  
"They do," Lord Yronwood answered. "But they aren't fool enough to try and come between a man and the defense of his faith."  
  
"They...don't approve of our action," Lord Uther said briefly. "But if I had to choose about being damned by my liege lord or by my gods, I know what choice I would make, and I would make it every time."  
  
"If I may speak, your grace..." the Lord Commander said quietly, holding Yohn's sword under his arm.  
  
"You may."  
  
"...if what they say of the Martells is true, then these men have put themselves in great peril to do what they have done," the Pale Griffin answered. "If they had planned a deception, they could have came upon us with their armies hours ago...and seeing as that they are in the heart of the Crownlands, they must have convinced the marcher lords of their intent."  
  
"You believe they are sincere?" Daeron asked, raising a brow. "What about you, Aemon?"  
  
"If they are willing to fight alongside us, then that is enough," Aemon answered truthfully. "We "  
  
"We may have spent years killing one another, that is true," Aemon answered. "We have men who fought for the blacks standing alongside those who fought for the greens, and what Lord Uther said was true. Our gods are the same. If the men of Dorne are willing to stand alongside us now, against the R'hllorists, then that is enough."  
  
Daeron looked at him intensely...and then he sighed, turning back towards the two Dornishmen.  
  
"I will allow your host to form with mine, on one condition."  
  
"Name it," Lord Yohn Yronwood said.  
  
"You will take a vow," Daeron said, raising his hand before they could object. "A vow to keep peace within this army. You will not fight against Reachmen or Stormlanders or anyone else in my kingdom whilst you are part of my host. In exchange, I will be fair to you, and give you both a place on my council so you need not worry about your lives being thrown away needlessly," the king softened again, closer to his usual self once more. "Are these terms acceptable?"  
  
For a moment, there was silence.  
  
"Is there a septon here who can witness our vows?" came Lord Uther's reply, Lord Yohn Yronwood nodding in agreement.  
  
Then a septon came forth and the two men knelt before him, swearing the vow that King Daeron had asked of them, Aemon standing by to witness it...and not once did he ever lose the smile that the sight of the Dornish army forming up with the crown's own gave him, not even as the waves of the Narrow Sea began to turn his stomach.  
  


****  
**End of Part 1!**  


**Author's Note:**

> So in this alternate universe, a more powerful and more successful Red Faith manages to expand across Essos by successfully converting a number of the Free Cities to the faith, eventually resulting in a clash with the surviving original Andals of Andalos and destroying the most important holy site of the Faith of the Seven in the Seven Hills, its equivalent to Jerusalem. This naturally puts the Seven Kingdoms and the southern Free Cities on a collision course, and Daeron - brother of the extremely pious Baelor and a charismatic leader in his own right - is happy to support the Faith in reclaiming the holy places, but this results in a delay to any invasion of Dorne.
> 
> Now, I, uh, never wrote much of a summary for this one, so I'll end this here to avoid digging into my writing time for the MSOW's part 16, but if you leave a comment with a question you can bet a round of Dornish red that I am reading them all and will get back to you as quickly as I can!


End file.
